Malcolm Wallace poured himself a cup of coffee, knowing that it would only be the first of many he'd be relying on to stay alert for the long night ahead of him.
As he picked up his mug and took his first careful sip of the still-steaming bitter brew, he glanced at the clipboard sitting atop the desk in the centre of the Campus Security office. Furrowing his brow, he muttered the document's title under his breath: "'Security Escort Request', huh?"
Skimming the page, Malcolm noticed the form had only been submitted that morning -- explaining why he hadn't been informed of this before now. Nevertheless, at least a few minutes' advance warning would have been nice: when he'd arrived moments earlier, all his co-worker for the evening had only told him there was some "paperwork to look over."
According to the form, someone in the Visual Arts Building needed a security escort in only 10 minutes' time. What if he had dallied before turning to what was obviously a time-sensitive document? He wondered -- not for the first time -- if Raul was just not taking this job seriously, if his coworker was just borderline illiterate, or if he was some combination of the two.
It struck Malcolm -- again, not for the first time -- that it was an unfair world where he and Raul were peers instead of Malcolm being the other man's supervisor. Yet, although that was hardly the only unfairness he faced in life, for some reason he never could quite accept that genuine merit and hard work were not always rewarded as they should be. Circumstance, it seemed, always ruled the day.
Fifteen years on this campus and ten in the same job had, little by little, made Malcolm a deeply jaded man. His time as a student here had earned him a criminology degree -- and more student debt than he would ever conceivably be able to pay.
Long gone were the days of a bright-eyed young man with his whole life ahead of him.
While Malcolm may still be in the same place, he was hardly the same person. Where a receding hairline and a paunch forming around his waist marked him as fifteen years older than the boy who first stepped foot on this campus, it was the hardness with which he greeted the world that truly signified the change in him. No longer did he see the twenty-somethings who populated the school as friends with whom he could grab a beer and recount a story about a crazy weekend. Instead, they were now his foes: troublemaking children without a care in the world -- their juvenile optimism wearing on his nerves and their blossoming bodies mocking the youth that left him a little more every day.
Keeping the time in mind, Malcolm regretfully chose his professional responsibility over his small comforts for the time being -- his caffeine boost, while much-needed, would simply have to wait. With Raul already doing his rounds, it fell solely to Malcolm to make good on the security escort request laid out on the form in front of him.
Straightening his tie and doing up the button on his uniform that had come open (not quite wanting to admit to himself that it proved stubborn not because the shirt had shrunk in the wash, but because pounds were creeping on to his midsection), Malcolm set off on his way to the Visual Arts Building.
Knowing the layout of campus like the back of his hand, he read through the form in greater detail by the dim light of the setting sun as he took the short walk on autopilot to his destination.
Ultimately, what the document revealed to Malcolm was very little, many of its optional spaces left blank and its filled-in portion noting the pickup and drop-off locations for his would-be ward and little else.
While the ignorance was irritating, knowing any more details about his job this evening was, strictly speaking, unnecessary. The standard protocols and procedures of security escorting were familiar to him, as this was not Malcolm's first time acting in this capacity. He had been a security escort for invited guests on several other occasions -- none of which proving to be anything exciting.
In his experience, most of the eggheads on campus thought their guests much more important than they really were, believing that "controversial" figures would genuinely have to fear for their safety for some reason or another. In reality, however, this job usually meant only tagging alongside some minor politician to a sparsely-attended speaking engagement somewhere on campus.
Nevertheless, upon entering the Visual Arts Building, Malcolm found himself pondering just what "high-profile" guest would have business here in particular.
As he rounded the first corner of what many described as the building's maze-like corridors (no match for someone who patrolled this campus more often than he cared to remember), a few ideas came to mind:
A graffiti artist like Banksy, perhaps, fearing law enforcement reprisal should his identity be revealed?
A political dissident of the Ai Weiwei sort who'd managed to attract the ire of some foreign dictatorship?
A Yoko Ono type who'd pissed off some big name celebrity's rabid fans?
Rounding the second corner, he tried to think if he'd seen or heard anything recently that would give him a hint at what to expect.
Had there been posters up about some event?
Even if there were, he figured, they likely had nothing to do with his task tonight. The request form, after all, seemed to have been submitted last-minute, suggesting a spur-of-the-moment guest more than someone whose visit had been long-planned.
Taking one more turn, Malcolm suspected he was almost at his destination -- the voices he heard echoing down the hallway were more than likely coming from the room he needed to reach.
As he approached, the security guard caught sight of the plaque adorning the half-ajar door which confirmed his suspicions: Room 127 - Sebastian Schwartz - Chair - Department of Visual Arts
While the information gleaned from the plaque came as no surprise (getting lost was simply not something Malcolm Wallace did), one more step presented him with a scene that was wholly unexpected.
Now looking directly into the room, Malcolm was struck by an unusual tableau.
To the left, a young woman -- quite a knockout, he couldn't help but think -- perched on the edge of a desk and holding what looked to be an electric razor in her hand. Unlike the rest of the room's inhabitants, she immediately noticed Malcolm standing in the doorway and gave him a playful smile before looking back to where the action seemed to be taking place.
To the right, a young man -- "faggy" probably being the most apt (albeit impolite) descriptor -- was seated and fully engrossed in the scene that formed the main event. Apparently oblivious to anything other than what had (understandably) garnered his full attention, he cleared his throat and posed a question to another figure in the room: "Umm, Prof. Schwartz?"
The silver-haired dandy sharing centre stage with the real focus of attention was no doubt the one whom the young man was addressing, confirming this by turning his own gaze away from the room's principal focus and to his eager pupil.
It was small wonder that neither the pink-shirted student nor the blue-blazered professor noticed Malcolm standing in the doorway -- in fact, it was more surprising that the young woman in the room had turned her own gaze away from the main event long enough to register that Malcolm was even there.
After all, next to the expertly dressed older man stood an expertly built younger one. Yet, where Schwartz was a sea of colours and fabrics, the sight captivating everyone's gazes was all flesh tones and furs, seeming not to have a single stitch of clothing covering anything on him.
Catching sight of the young man in profile, stock still and making no effort to impede anyone's view of him, Malcolm apprehended a male body in a way he never had before.
In spite of himself, he perceived the form before him as beautiful.
Not beautiful in the way women were, of course. No, not at all. There was nothing in the least feminine about this sight.
But there was something so pleasant about it; about the flow and ratio of the lines from broad shoulders and prominent pectorals down to a tight, narrow waist, curving back out into an ample buttocks supported by firm, strong thighs; about the healthiness of a flawless fair complexion; about the suppleness of an athletic body blooming at its prime; about the manliness the calm confidence of this form attested to.
"I understand that models occasionally will get involuntary erections..." Schwartz's seated student began, "but, uh, is it, umm, typical to ASK a model to become erect while posing? Wouldn't that move us into 'the territory of the sexual' which, as I think you said, could distract from the 'beauty of the male form'?"
The sheer peculiarity of this question broke Malcolm from his trance.
Erections? Just what kind of thing was going on here?
More importantly... had he just checked a naked guy out?
No... No, of course not. He was just sizing him up -- a perfectly natural thing to do.
Schwartz gave his student an animated replied, obviously delighted by the inquiry: "A fine question, Francis! I was merely throwing out a hypothetical -- more of a joke than anything else." Glancing over at the "model" and then back at Francis, the older man added with a wink: "Although, you never know what might happen."
His student gave a nervous laugh before the girl on the desk finally broke down this scene's fourth wall. Clearing her throat and calling the art professor's attention, she motioned to toward Malcolm with the statement, "It looks like we've got a visitor."
Where before the beautiful (no, not "beautiful," Malcolm thought... that word couldn't be right, could it?) man at the room's centre had held everyone's collective attention, this was now directed at Malcolm instead.
The most peculiar response to this shift in attention came from the young man himself. While everyone else merely gave a casual turn of the head to glance in Malcolm's direction, the bare-ass youth at the room's centre (who, a moment ago, had seemed so relaxed) was suddenly all spasms and twitches.
At first, it seemed like he was moving to cover himself -- only to stop this movement quite suddenly and immediately jerk his hands back to his side. The whole motion had entirely the opposite effect from what it seemed it would at first: instead of the young man covering his genitals from sight (he had, in turning to see Malcolm, shifted his position enough to bring those into full view), what his bizarre hand movements actually did was direct Malcolm's eyes squarely to his fully exposed package.
Just what kind of pervert was this guy, anyway?
Just what the fuck was that stunt, faking that he was going to cover himself just to trick another guy into getting a good look at his wang?
Certain of his heterosexuality, the security guard had zero interest in checking out another man's one-eyed snake. He immediately averted his gaze after laying eyes on it, trying to find absolutely anything else in the room to focus on.
His eyes landing on Schwartz now, the security guard was as honest with him as his professional decorum would allow him to be.
"Well, this is, uh..." Malcolm paused a moment, wondering how to phrase it diplomatically (in spite of how very uncomfortable he was made by that pervert's the brazen self-exposure, his job here was to function as a security escort, not to cast judgement on what kind of bizarre shit these werido artists get up to), "... not exactly what I was expecting."
"Ah, marvellous, you're here!" said an animated Schwartz as he motioned Malcolm into the room. "Come in, come in."
Malcolm did as he was told, all the while actively trying not to let his eyes be drawn back to the buck naked exhibitionist who formed the natural focus of attention in the room's centre.
This was not an easy task, as five people in a mid-size office space left little room for Malcolm to navigate into. In an effort to avoid getting flashed again, he found himself mostly looking at the floor -- whereupon he noticed some other things he hadn't expected: discarded shoes, socks, jeans, a hoodie, and a pair of boxer shorts.
Obviously, the now-naked man must have come in here wearing something, so it was not the clothes in and of themselves that were unexpected. Rather, it was the way they seemed to have been carelessly thrown around all corners of the room instead of, say, carefully removed and folded in a tidy pile.
To Malcolm's mind, there came only one explanation: a full-on striptease must have occurred.
Was this strapping young man was a stripper by trade? It seemed plausible -- likely, in fact. Who else but a stripper would be as comfortable as this guy seemed to be with letting it all hang out in the open so brazenly in a room full of otherwise fully-dressed people? That kind of thing had to come with the territory, Malcolm figured.
Or maybe he was just a pervert, playing at being a stripper to get his rocks off? If that stunt with the hand motion -- feigning that he would cover up his junk just so he could trick Malcolm into getting a good look at it instead -- told the security guard anything, it was that this guy obviously loved exposing himself to anyone who was willing to take a gander.
Maybe the good people around him -- who, with their conservative button-ups and modest fall sweaters, seemed like a respectable bunch -- had merely asked him to undress for the purposes of being an art model, not expecting him to play it up with a striptease?
And, probably, they had not objected once it started: Schwartz and Francis were pretty clearly a couple of fruits and, as for the girl perched on the desk, well, no hot-blooded woman would turn down the chance to see a man who looked like that put on a little performance.
With this train of thought, Malcolm's feelings were quickly turning to revulsion. This cocky, conceited fucker obviously knew he had the goods people wanted to see and obviously enjoyed toying with their gazes, teasing them with his fit form when he got their attention.
Isn't that what he'd done to Malcolm only moments ago? He now resented it immensely -- how dare this punk play with his curious gaze like that! If another guy's eyes are gonna land right on your oak tree and acorns, you cover the fucking thing up -- and you definitely don't try to make him take a better look at it!
But, before Malcolm could fully work himself up into a quiet rage, his attention was brought back to the scene in Schwartz's office (of which he was now a part).
"Who's our new friend?" the young woman by the desk asked, looking to Schwartz for an answer.
Malcolm, however, jumped right in, pleased to focus his attention on her (yes, focus on the gorgeous girl in the room like any normal man would -- yes, this is where his gaze should be falling -- yes, he should have been looking at her long before now, taking in her glowing skin and hourglass curves instead of ogling some pasty gym-rat's bloated brawn).
"Malcolm Wallace, miss," he said with a nod, not wanting to go over and shake her hand lest he have to get even closer to the pervert between them. "I'm with Campus Security," he added, attempting to sound confident and calm even though the situation was starting to make him feel both unnerved and ticked off.
"'Campus Security'?" she mused, looking over at the half-open door. "Ah, I guess we shouldn't have left that open..."
"Oh, he's not here because of that," Schwartz offered with a chuckle and dismissive wave. "He'll be escorting our VIP here to class," he continued in a playful tone, his hand motions directing attention back to the nude figure in the middle of the room.
Desperately hoping that he wouldn't be tricked into looking at his package again, Malcolm reluctantly focused on his ward (trying to look as much as possible only at what was above the shoulders).
As he'd expected, he found that the art model's face was undeniably a good-looking one: appealing in its symmetry; captivating in its strong features; pleasing in its fair, even skin tone; and all the more striking when framed by locks of raven hair.
Thankfully, however, this visage did not move Malcolm as the youth's full form had a few moments ago. Above the neck, the young man was "handsome," yes -- but handsome things appealed to nothing as deep within Malcolm as beauty did.
Nevertheless, while these good looks met with the security guard's expectations, the expression on the young man's face did not. There was no arrogant, shit-eating grin, but instead an uncomfortable grimace and a tensed brow.
This expression did not fit at all with the scenario Malcolm had pieced together in his mind. Why would an exhibitionist with a captive audience look so... Angry? Nervous? Afraid? The exact sentiment conveyed by the visage was hard to pin down, but it certainly did not seem to be a good one.
Maybe he thought Malcolm was here to end his fun? Yes, that had to be it. This freaky fucker had been over-indulging in a fantasy, but now here was reality again. Malcolm was not going to egg on this peepshow like the others must have done; rather, he would lay down the law.
There were rules here, after all. This was a school, not a strip club! Even if this exhibitionist had been invited to campus to act as an "art model," there were still standards of decency to uphold.
"We just need finish getting AJ here prepped for class and we'll all be on our way," Schwartz informed Malcolm, stealing the security guard's attention away from his analysis of what the young man's expression communicated.
The young woman in the room joined in. "Oh, that's right!" she started, crossing the room over to Francis. "I guess you'll be needing this," she added playfully (as though she were in on some private joke), handing the seated student the electric razor she'd been holding.
"Oh, right..." Francis said hesitantly, inspecting the razor. "I, uh... Well, umm, is there any specific way you want me to shave him, Prof. Schwartz?" he asked, looking to his teacher for direction.
"Well, with the razor, of course!" replied Schwartz with a good-natured chuckle, eliciting a only nervous smile from Francis and a tired groan from the young woman.
"You're, uh... planning to shave him in here?" Malcolm asked, only half-believing that these weirdo artists thought they could do this. Asserting his authority as the one to lay down the law in a situation that seemed to be getting more and more absurd, Malcolm continued: "With all due respect, Prof. Schwartz, I definitely don't think it's appropriate to have your students shaving a naked man in your office while we all watch."
Schwartz immediately glared at Malcolm, catching him off-guard with how quickly he'd gone from his jovial joking to a stone-cold seriousness. He seemed to study Malcolm's face, making the security guard feel nervous (though strengthening his resolve to project an image of self-assured authority).
"You're right..." Schwartz began quietly and pensively. "You're absolutely right," he continued as a sly smile crept back upon his face.
The professor eagerly turned to his students, suddenly energized.
"Malcolm here has got me thinking," he began. "As we can see --" Schwartz took a couple steps closer to his model (the young man recoiled, but the motion seemed to stop at the hips, his feet keeping him in the centre of the room) "-- AJ is definitely no 'man-scaper.'"
The professor waved his hand down AJ's body like game show assistants do when displaying a showcase prize. He motioned especially to the thick, dark fur carpeting the young man's chest, then to the sparser hair on his abdomen, then down to the unkempt bush resting just above his --
Malcolm caught himself before looking all the way down, swiftly directing his attention away from the bare-ass youth who was putting his body on pornographic display and back to the fully-dressed lecturer who was putting on a respectable, scholarly performance.
"Yet, this is to be expected. After all, if we're being realistic, it is highly unlikely to find male models whose personal grooming works perfectly for the artist's intentions."
"So," AJ began, speaking for the first time since Malcolm had arrived.
The articulation caught Malcolm off-guard -- in fact, everyone in the room seemed a bit surprised by it. Perhaps they, like Malcolm, had forgotten that AJ was not just a form to gaze upon, but was also a voice to listen to. Unlike Michelangelo's David, this figure could respond to those who studied it.
"That means you're not shaving me, right?"
AJ's words were half-way between a question and a statement. There was an uncertainty in his voice, but also a gruffness. It was a tone Malcolm recognized: it said that the speaker could remain civil (it was a question, after all), but was also willing to break someone's nose if that was the way to get the reply he wanted.
Schwartz smiled wickedly at the young man. "Oh, my dear boy, you still have much to learn."
The older man let those words hang in the air a moment before answering AJ's question directly. "Of course we have to shave you!" he added, as though AJ's question had been a ridiculous inquiry.
"But," Schwartz turned back to Malcolm, "as I started to say, what you got me thinking is this: why not use it as a teachable moment?" He paused again for effect, perhaps to let everyone in the room put the pieces together themselves before he filled in the blanks. "We'll do the prep in front of the class!"
"Wait, what?!" AJ exclaimed, his eyes bulging.
Snapping his head back around to meet AJ's gaze, an irritated Schwartz yelled out, "Quiet, boy!" -- using a tone more befitting of a master commanding his dog than one man talking to another.
AJ's eyes narrowed, but, to Malcolm's surprise, the towering muscle man not only tolerated being spoken to in this manner (he had expected violence, not obedience), but actually appeared to acquiesce to the much littler man looking up at him.
AJ grumbled for a moment before seemingly giving up on articulating his feelings -- settling on an angry snarl instead of angry words (or, for that matter, angry actions).
Turning back to his students, Schwartz instantly switched back to a civil tone and continued. "As I was saying before that uncalled for interruption, what occurred to me is this: shaving AJ with class involvement is a perfect opportunity for some 'experiential learning' -- that is, teaching those honing their skills not simply how to artistically capture a model they see, but how to MOULD a model into something they can work with."
"Prof. Schwartz," Malcolm interjected, calling the middle-aged man's attention.
In a no-nonsense tone, the security guard continued: "Much like it's not appropriate to have your students here shaving a fully naked man, having your class take part--"
Schwartz cut the security guard off, meeting his gaze. "-- is actually what you were thinking I should do. Right, Malcolm?"
At the moment the professor's eyes met his and those words came from his lips, Malcolm felt deep down in the pit of his stomach there was something deeply wrong with this situation. It was not a matter of rules or decency being violated anymore, no. Something about this felt like it was violating reality itself...
But he also knew the professor was right, of course. That was exactly what he meant, wasn't it? Yes... it must have been. It seemed obvious now.
He had to admit that it would be appropriate if students shaving this young man took place not in some office tucked away on an obscure corner of campus, but rather was done out in the open in a classroom -- somewhere with obvious educational value.
Trying to regain a sense of authority despite his lingering uneasiness, Malcolm replied: "Yeah.... Yeah, exactly. That's what I meant. If you're going to shave him, it will have to be after we get him to your class."
Content with Malcolm's response, the art professor then stepped even closer to AJ -- making it clear that he was unintimidated by AJ's puffed up chest and snarling expression by entering well into the naked young man's personal space.
Although AJ once again leaned away from the professor, it was almost as if his feet were rooted to the ground. While he moved his legs and shifted his weight occasionally, AJ had more or less remained standing in the middle of the room this whole time, as though an invisible force somehow kept him in centre stage.
"Francis, I understand that you know AJ here outside of his volunteering to be our model?" Schwartz inquired.
"Oh, well, yeah... but mostly just through Jessica, really" the seated student offered uncertainly, motioning to his friend.
Not missing a beat, Schwartz continued: "No doubt you already knew before today, then, some of the details of AJ's bare torso." He motioned along AJ's upper body to emphasize his point.
"Well, actually..." Francis hesitantly began, "If I'm being honest, I kind of knew AJ had hair on his chest, but I've never really looked very closely. I mean..." He seemed to search for the right words before continuing. "Well... he's not exactly the kind of guy to just walk around shirtless."
He looked to his female friend. "I mean, you said it yourself, Jess. AJ's not really comfortable, well... showing a lot of skin?" Francis finished, unable to make the final words into a firm statement in light of the "naked truth" standing directly before him.
Jessica's full lips produced a lopsided smile. "Yeah, you're right. I did say that."
She looked over to the security guard, adding more details to the story for the sake of the odd man out: "AJ and I were an item for about three years, you know."
Malcolm was hardly surprised. With Angelina Jolie lips and a chest that announced its plentiful endowment with her every movement, Jessica was definitely a head-turner. It only made sense that a beautiful woman like that would get scooped up by an even more beautiful --
"And during that entire time," she continued, "I don't think I saw this fucker even take off his shirt in public more than a couple of times."
Her smile became a wry one as she threw up her hands in (mock?) exasperation. "Hell, come to think of it, in three goddamn years together, I don't even know if I ever saw even him fully head-to-toe naked."
She turned her attention to AJ, her expression transitioning into a full-on sneer when she laid eyes on her ex. "Christ, all that time you spent at the gym, making yourself into every woman's wet dream and I -- your fucking girlfriend -- I had to settle for stolen glances and furtive touches under the covers."
She shook her head, no doubt wondering what could have possibly motivated her to put up with it for so long. "And all because it seemed like nothing in the world could possibly make you more anxious -- no, wait... 'Anxious' isn't the right word..."
She paused to reflect a moment, then smiled sharply and almost spat the words she found: "Nothing in the world could possibly make you more AFRAID than the idea of being vulnerable... of being defenceless against prying eyes for even one fucking second."
She looked her former lover up and down slowly, drawing out that "one fucking second" of her own prying eyes now feasting on every inch of his bare flesh.
"So, yeah, I didn't think AJ was a 'naked' kind of guy..." Jessica said, turning back to Francis. "Looks like I was wrong."
While AJ's alabaster complexion was no doubt usually a feature that only helped him -- the unblemished canvass making his bodily beauty all the more enthralling -- it did him no favours now. The profuse reddening of his cheeks at that moment was entirely unmissable and unmistakeable.
Malcolm figured the young man's reaction could mean two different things, as aspects of his overall countenance seemed at odds with each other.
On the one hand, AJ might be flush with anger. After all, it looked like he was literally biting his tongue to refrain from snapping back at Jessica's comment. His narrowed eyes and flat lips suggested aggression... And perhaps Malcolm would believe the young man was simply displaying anger if the rest of the picture was not telling him otherwise.
Instead of appearing threatening (and, being barrel-chested and almost a head taller than anyone else in the room, that should be an easy thing for him to do, even if his nudity made it all a bit comical), AJ's overall appearance conveyed something different.
He appeared threatened.
And the reason for the threat, Malcolm concluded, was obvious: this young man had been caught in a lie.
Where for years he had apparently feigned some phobia as the reason for depriving his lover of the bounty of his body, now the truth was out for all to see: he obviously loved to show the whole thing off. With his well-developed, athletic form on full display in centre stage -- making no effort to cover himself in the least -- what other explanation could there possibly be?
Clearly, AJ's alleged "fear" of nudity had just been an excuse.
More likely, the guy was not just a closeted exhibitionist, but a closeted homo. If a drop-dead gorgeous woman like Jessica could not persuade him simply to undress in three years together, yet a couple of fags prompted him to do a full-on striptease moments prior, it seemed clear that what excited AJ was exciting only other men with his body.
His ex had caught him in a years-long lie -- discovering that he was not only a pervert, but also probably gay -- and she was having none of it.
She was not made weak by the visual feast he now put out for her to finally enjoy. Instead, she had confronted him.
If this was a fight or flight moment, perhaps his intense glare was meant to say that he would fight, but the rest of his body betrayed what he really felt and who he really was: hot blushes and cold sweats told everyone that, at that moment, he was no more than a terrified little boy.
With last every inch of him in full view, there was simply no hiding his form's nervous squirming, or the sheen of sweat forming on his skin (and, given that he was butt naked in a cool room, what else could this be from but blushing hot with embarrassment?), or the way his little buddy had clearly retreated into --
Schwartz cleared his throat, breaking Malcolm of his train of thought (horrified to realize he had just been studying this nudist freak's dick to confirm that he was more humiliated than hot-headed).
"As I was saying..." Schwartz looked to his audience, making sure they were paying attention to him again. "Francis, it seems that I was correct, although perhaps not as much as I thought. Regardless, my point stands: you knew that the model you'd be working with would arrive with some hair on his torso, even if you did not know as well as you do now the intimate cartography of this landscape's forests," he said, motioning to the young man's pectorals before shifting his hand into one that pointed right at AJ's pubic bush.
Reluctantly looking at where the professor's pointer finger directed attention, Malcolm noticed that it was no more than a half an inch away from making direct contact with AJ's pubes -- and the art model moved immediately and violently to push the hand away. However, Schwartz withdrew it before contact was made, seemingly unfazed by AJ's volatile reaction.
"Even someone such as yourself," Schwartz resumed, "who might know generally who the model is that you're working with, could be caught off guard by how he has chosen to groom himself in more typically 'private' areas."
"Or not groom himself," Jessica added with a scoff.
Paying no mind to the young woman's interjection, Schwartz continued: "Nevertheless, we are lucky to have found a model who has not made himself a slave to the trends of the day. AJ's naturalness is something we should all appreciate."
Schwartz glanced again at AJ's pubic hair and paused just a moment too long, perhaps appreciating it as he had just encouraged everyone to do.
"So..." he slowly began again, reluctantly removing his gaze from AJ's crotch and turning it back to the faces of his audience, "while our model's present lack of grooming obstructs our view of several of his body's intimate details far too much for our purposes, we are quite fortunate to be able to choose how to trim and style him. If we do this carefully, we can retain the impression that his form simply grows this way of its own accord -- as if no grooming has taken place at all -- while still preventing his body hair from covering any of the hard-earned musculature of his torso or hiding any of his..." Schwartz paused and eyed AJ's crotch again before finding his words: "... shall we say, 'modest endowment' from anyone's view."
"Speaking of your class, professor," Malcolm interjected, feeling deeply uneasy with this prolonged attention being called not just to another man's body, but another man's crotch specifically. "Since it seems like your prep here is done, we should be on our way," he concluded, eager to move this along and end his involvement in this increasingly bizarre scenario.
"Ah, of course, of course," Schwartz replied, moving to his desk to retrieve the satchel by its side. "I still need to gather my notes, but why don't you head there now?"
Schwartz looked to his seated pupil and added, "Francis, you can show AJ to the classroom, right?"
"Of course, professor," the young waif replied (his voice somewhat flat, as though not quite understanding what he was saying). "I'll..." Francis stood and surveyed the room, seeming to get his bearings. "I'll show him to class now," he said with slightly more conviction than before, now moving toward the doorway and adding, "Come on, AJ."
To that, the art model gave only a grunt of displeasure (seeming in that moment less like a modern Homo sapiens with the full power of speech and more like a dim-witted caveman -- his nudity only bolstering that impression).
"Sorry, what?" asked Francis, his eyebrows knotted in confusion.
"Come on, boy," Schwartz called over from his desk. "Speak up."
With a cough, the words exploded out of AJ's mouth: "Hold up!"
The art model paused a moment -- as if he were surprised that words had successfully emerged from his lips -- before continuing somewhat more tentatively, "I know we talked about this yesterday, but now I really don't think--"
"Don't think you have any more time to waste?" Schwartz threw out, cutting the young man off mid-sentence. "Well, that's why should be on your way."
"Listen, buddy," AJ began, back straightening as he adopted a more authoritative posture. "You're not --"
"Going to hold you up anymore?" Schwartz added in (beginning, of course, to strain credulity with how obvious it was that he was putting words in AJ's mouth -- why on earth the imposing muscle man tolerated such condescending treatment being anyone's guess). His stare now icy cold as he locked eyes with his model, Schwartz continued: "Go to the class, AJ."
Francis trailed toward the door, throwing in a "Come on, AJ, we don't have all day" as he sauntered into the hallway.
However, despite the urging of both the art student and art professor, AJ remained passive, save for a couple minor twitches and jerks in his legs.
Still locking eyes with AJ, Schwartz added in firm and commanding voice (a tone unexpected from a man so slight in stature and so flamboyant in dress), "NOW."
Although he had seemed up until the moment to be rooted to his spot in the centre of the room, AJ was quick to suddenly relinquish that territory at Schwartz's behest, moving swiftly to follow Francis out of the room and into the hallway (almost as if an invisible force carried him along).
Waltzing past Malcolm toward the doorway, AJ's backside came now into view -- and the security guard found himself entranced once more, studying the lines of a divinely designed mechanism that was, in form and moving, so express and admirable.
Malcolm did not know the names for the muscles in the back that raised and rippled as the young man walked -- and he stopped caring what they were called when his eyes drifted lower and took in the bouncing globes that sat below them. It hardly seemed fair, the gift of a body which grew strong and firm in chest, arms, back, and legs, but grew so round and perky in the buttocks.
Surely, this youth had been blessed. While his well-developed musculature bespoke his dedication to physical fitness, no exercise routine could produce that kind of distribution. The result of the sweat broken in the gym and the genes expressed in the end (or, rather, "in the ass") was deeply enviable, producing a male form that balanced being hard and strong in one place and yet so soft and supple in another.
As AJ's body disappeared from view, Malcolm's reverie was broken. He chastised himself immediately, both for apparently checking out the naked man yet again (it must be envy, right? it couldn't possibly be lust...) and for shirking his duty.
Now doing a double-take and adopting his professional mindset once more, he was incredulous at what he had just witnessed: that pervert walked out into the hallway (and presumably intended to walk across campus) completely in the buff!
"Did he just...?" The security guard looked to Schwartz. "Don't you, you know, have a robe or something for him?"
The older man lit up, apparently delighted by Malcolm's inquiry. "Why, I do indeed!"
Looking to Jessica (how had Malcolm forgotten this beautiful woman was here? how was it that that pervert kept transfixing him instead?), Schwartz called over, "Could you fetch that from the basket by the bookshelf, love?"
As Jessica retrieved a plush, pristine garment, Schwartz looked to Malcolm again. "Normally, our models wear the robe we provide both to and from the classroom, putting it on as soon a they've undressed, removing it only for a brief time in an appropriate setting, and donning it again immediately afterward," Schwartz explained. "But, I'm afraid AJ's sole condition for volunteering as a model here is that he'd wear no robe at all," he concluded with a defeated shrug.
Jessica carried the item over to Malcolm, handing it to him. "We tried to talk some sense into him before you arrived. Even just tying a towel around his waist or something..." she began, glancing over to Schwartz with a sly smile creeping onto her face.
As Malcolm took the garment from the young woman, she looked back to the security guard and continued, "But, he was VERY insistent. He refused everything we tried to talk him into wearing for decency's sake -- hell, even for safety's sake! He wouldn't even put shoes on for the walk to class."
Schwartz cleared his throat and added in, "AJ is quite serious in his commitment to total nudism."
"With due respect, Prof. Schwartz," Malcolm began, "Regardless of what kind of... 'lifestyle' your model chooses, there are rules against this kind of thing."
"Ah, of course, of course," the professor said, nodding and walking over to Malcolm with a paper in his hand. "Although, just so you're aware, he did sign a waiver."
Taking the document from Schwartz, Malcolm began to inspect it. "Well..." he mulled it over, not entirely comprehending all the legalese. "It's not like a waiver can make public nudity legal, professor. It just absolves the university from any responsibility."
"Ah, right, a fair point..." Schwartz calmly replied. "Although, it seems that it does make all of this into AJ's choice and not our responsibility, doesn't it?"
Instead of answering the art professor's question, Malcolm posed one of his own when his gaze finally landed on the signature at the bottom of page. "Wait... 'Adam Kingsley, Jr.'?" his eyes shot up, meeting Schwartz's. "As in 'Mayor Adam Kingsley'? THAT was his son?!"
While the junior evidently differed from the senior in countless ways (the tallness, the burliness, the nakedness -- Mayor Kingsley was much more slight in stature and usually quite smartly dressed), the family resemblance was suddenly so obvious. The city's charismatic mayor had movie star good looks -- no small part of which thanks to features his son had apparently inherited: ice-blue eyes with chiseled features and a cool complexion accented by thick, dark hair.
"Ah, I'm afraid I don't know..." Schwartz offered with a slight shrug. "But I would assume there is a relation to the mayor, yes."
"I'm sure AJ would be happy to tell you both all about his father," Jessica offered in, a smile on her face that did not quite reach her eyes.
At this mention of AJ, Malcolm looked back to the doorway -- and realized that both the art model and the art student were apparently long gone. Stepping out of the office and glancing both ways, the security guard perceived only an empty hallway.
Their endpoint was certain -- Malcolm knew exactly what destination the two had targeted. But, in this maze, the ways of getting there were countless. Which direction had they gone in?
Just where on campus was that pervert flashing unsuspecting bystanders now?
"Well," Schwartz said, coming out of the room just behind Malcolm. "I suppose we should be on our way."